Lizbeth Beauty Ravaged 1 of 5
by ladymanhammer
Summary: Lizbeth Covenant, her biting habit and so many other nasty things. Read the others too.


The following story is entirely fictitious, any similarity to any person living or dead is totally coincidental and unintentional, except where noted in cast and crew disclaimers. All celebrity writings are impersonated and no celebrity has endorsed any aspect of this writing.  
  
Clerks uses this device.  
  
The following story is entirely fictitious. It is based on the story line for the game Clive Barker's Undying distributed by EA Games Inc. All characters are the soul property of Clive Barker, and all plot lines and some use of text is the property of said famous author and director and gaming distributor.  
  
The following story is that of Lizbeth Covenant, the socially elite youngest sister of the Covenant family who developed the nasty biting habit and the desire to consume that engrossed her in the events that occurred before, during and post World War One.  
  
Lizbeth: Beauty Ravaged  
  
The most perfect doll, gleaming in soft lamp light, the prodigal babe,  
the porcelain face.  
Perfect hands, and blue gray eyes, red full lips, soft honey hair.  
Stately grace, fitting of her station. The social elitist, a betrayal  
of her years.  
  
But twenty is young, and disease is quick.  
Curses are inherited, and evil is manifested.  
Cancer is a ravager, an insult to the soul.  
And so, Lizbeth, to die young is to repent,  
For all those years of prideful resentment.  
  
Covenant Family Estate, 1889  
  
Evaline dropped her stitching and glanced up sharply, her brown hair falling over her forehead and shoulders. Eliza was standing next to her. She was the most loyal servant the family had ever known, and, seeing that her mistress was in distress, walked quickly away from the boy on the table and held her Evaline's shoulders. "Miss, Mistress Evaline, what is the matter?" Eliza stammered. The boy, little older than three years old, clambered off the counter top and ran to join his mother. But Eliza had another idea. "Ambrose, go now. Find your father and tell him to come quickly. You're mother is having a baby." Ambrose stood his ground and shook his head. Evaline doubled over in pain, apparently not noticing her youngest son. Eliza reached over, grabbed a handful of the boy's hair and yanked him over to the door. The boy screamed a little and Evaline reached a hand out to him. "No, Eliza, don't pull his hair." She barely got to finish her sentence before another contraction hit her. "Oh, he's fine, the little hellion," she told her mistress. She swatted Ambrose on the rear, "You run and fetch your father like I told you, boy." Ambrose yanked the thumb out of his mouth and ran as fast as his little legs could carry him. In his wild fright and anger, he didn't notice his older sister Bethany round the corner in front of him, and he barreled straight into her. They both fell to the floor, and Ambrose scrambled back up. "What is the matter with you?" Bethany asked, fixing her hair. "I have to find Daddy," Ambrose cried in his sister's face, "Mummy's having the baby!" "Oh my God," she grabbed Ambrose by the hand and pulled him after her. She never questioned her little brother's story, but instead threw all her weight against the library door and flung it wide. She and Ambrose fell panting inside, bringing Joseph Covenant and their oldest brother, Jeremiah to a standing position. "Bethany, darling, Ambrose, what's going?" he asked, a little bewildered. "Its Mumma," Ambrose said, jumping up and down, "Eliza told me, she did, she did, Mumma's havin' the baby!" The little boy could hardly contain his terror. His eyes were streaming and Bethany had to hold him to keep him from falling down in his three year old emotional state. His hands were pressed over his mouth and his chest was heaving. Joseph shut the book he was holding and threw it away on the desk. He went over to them, picked up his son and led his daughter over to where Jeremiah was standing. He sat Ambrose in a chair and made Bethany stand beside him. As he was about to yell, Bethany's twin, Aaron, came into the room, his fiery hair in his sweaty round face. "Father, Mother's screaming!" he cried. "Its alright son. Come here," Joseph said. Aaron threw his arms around his father and held on tight. "Now, Aaron," Joseph coaxed, loosening his grip, "I have to go to your mother. You and Bethany help Jeremiah watch Ambrose. Careful, he's sneaky." "Is Mother going to be alright?" Jeremiah asked. He didn't remember much of Ambrose's birth and he was too young to remember the twins', but he was fairly certain that something was wrong. Joseph could see it in his brown eyes. "Everything will be fine, Jeremiah. Watch your brothers and sister." Joseph ran down the hallway, his well kept hair falling out of place as he barreled towards Evaline's room. Her screams made him try his best to run faster. Of all the birth's he'd been present for, none of them sounded as foreboding as this one. Even the twins' weren't as alarming, and delivering twins in his day had almost been a fatal feat for anyone. Eliza was sponging Evaline's forehead with a cold cloth when he threw the door wide and strode in. He ran to his wife's side and took her hand. "Darling, what is it?" he asked. "Its-it's the baby. Something is wrong," she said, gripping his hand tighter until he saw it turn purple. "Where is the midwife?" he asked Eliza. "She's on her way, Master Joseph." "Here I am, here I am!" the old woman walked in and began her examination. She felt Evaline's abdomen and her shoulders slumped. "The baby has the umbilical chord wrapped around its neck. I'll have to cut it or it will strangle," the old woman said. "Oh my God." Joseph hung his head and sighed. The old women a small knife, and had Eliza tie towels into knots and attach them to the bed for her to grip. Joseph's hand was purple and it throbbed. Once they got Evaline to let go of his hand, he examined it for a moment and returned his attention to his wife. He continued to swab her forehead with cold water while Eliza and the old woman began the birth. Evaline had only been in labor thirty minutes before the baby started coming. "All right, Mistress, push," the old woman said. Evaline pushed hard and the baby slipped a few inches. They could see the top of its head, it was held up by the chord. The midwife slipped her small knife up into Evaline and put all of her concentration into not slitting the babe's throat. "Push again, Evaline," the midwife said. She pushed, and the baby slid free, along with a lot of blood, an alarming amount. Joseph watched with wide eyes as his wife's life blood spilled out of her. The baby began to scream and the midwife handed her to Eliza to dry her off. The midwife moved to check over Evaline. She checked her pulse and gasped. "Dear God," the woman sighed. She crossed herself. "What is it?" Joseph asked. "She's bleeding to death," the woman sobbed. Joseph's eyes widened farther and his face paled. His eyes welled up and he bent over his wife. She was gasping for air. He kissed her lips and ran his fingers through her hair. She tried to touch his face, but she had no strength. Her finger tips slipped from his cheek as the life drained out of her. With a gasp, her head fell to the side and her eyes glazed over. Joseph leaned his body over hers. His mind whirled and his heart pounded in his chest. His wife, his reason for life, the bearer of his children was dead, and he didn't know if he could wrap his mind around that. He didn't want to believe it, but any second now his children were going to run into the room and wonder about their mother. He couldn't think of that. The mere thought of his children going without a mother brought him to his knees. He gripped the dead woman's hand and sobbed uncontrollably. His sobs turned to wails of lament and howls of sorrow. If the baby's screams didn't bring the children running, his lamentable howling certainly would. Eliza tried to dry the baby through her tears, but she wasn't doing a very good job. She wondered if Joseph would want to hold the babe after what happened to Evaline. Would he even love it? She glanced at the sex. Another girl, an even more morbid reminder of Evaline. She picked the babe up in her arms and started to rock her. The baby stared up at her. The child was still unseeing, but it stared up at her as if she could see through the great lights of the first few days of childhood. Tears welled in Eliza's eyes again, for she had Evaline's eyes. She took the babe over to Joseph, but the man was huddled on the floor and unresponsive. The midwife was trying to comfort him and clean Evaline up at the same time. They needed the coroner to prepare the body, and Eliza sent one of the younger servants, Mary Margaret, to fetch the butler to run into town and fetch back the coroner. The midwife stayed with Joseph, but Eliza was unsure what to do with the baby. The other four births had been joyous occasions, when Evaline held her hands out to Eliza, half begging to hold her new children. The twins had been quite a sight, and Joseph couldn't stop smiling for days. But this? With Evaline dead, who would hold the baby, who would the baby look upon and call "mother."? Eliza sat in the chair beside Joseph, who was silent now, but tears still streamed from his eyes. She began rocking the baby to sleep. She rung the bell and had one of the kitchen maids boil some milk. Her mind was far away from the other four children.  
  
In the library, Jeremiah held tight to the chair arm that Ambrose was sitting in. The little boy had his knees pulled up to his chest and his thumb stuck in his mouth. Bethany was clinging to Aaron and the other boy was looking over his twin's head at Jeremiah. His eyes begged him to go and see what had transpired. "How much longer?" Bethany asked. Her mother's screaming had wracked her brain, and she could hear nothing but the screams. "Just a few more minutes," Jeremiah said. He glanced at Ambrose and tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but the boy jerked away from him. Jeremiah shrugged and knelt next to chair. "What's the matter with him, Jeremiah?" Aaron asked. Ambrose didn't appear to be breathing and Jeremiah didn't want to get hit trying to check if he was. "I think he's in shock," Jeremiah said. "What's shock?" Bethany asked. "You know, its when someone can't move or speak or even breath. You can die from shock," the older boy said. Bethany pulled away from Aaron and grabbed Ambrose by the shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "You stop that right now, Ambrose Covenant! Don't you dare be in shock!" she yelled in his face. "Bethany!" Jeremiah and Aaron screamed in unison. The little boy wrenched away from her and threw himself on the floor. He crawled under the desk and refused to move. "We should go see Mother now," Jeremiah said, ignoring the three year old. "Yes." The twins followed their big brother out of the library. Ambrose watched them go, and with a scream of a small child's emotional rage, he ran after them. He managed to push his way ahead of his older brothers and sister and rush into the room first. Joseph looked up. He was sitting on the bed now, and as he laid eyes on his children, tears came back to him. They beheld the sight of their mother lying in her death bed, the sheets soaked in blood. "Who let them in?" Joseph asked Eliza. "I don't know, sir. I don't suppose anyone was watching them. Ambrose's eyes widened and he crammed his fist into his mouth and bit down until blood flowed down the back of his hand. Bethany gripped Aaron's hand and Jeremiah leaned on his younger brother. Joseph stood up to stop his son from biting himself, but Ambrose jerked away from him and started to run to his mother. Joseph picked him up and the boy kicked and thrashed and screamed to be let down. Joseph paid his struggles no heed and carried him from the room. Jeremiah led his brother's out and shut the door behind them. Eliza could hear Ambrose screaming through the closed door, even as Joseph carried him towards a soft chair in the library. The door opened again and Father O'Leary stepped inside. He glanced at Evaline and then at Eliza. He came over to her and she handed him the baby. "She needs to be baptized," Eliza said. "Is it Joseph's wish?" he asked. "Its my wish." "I see. So she is your new charge?" the priest asked. "Yes, Father. I don't think anyone else will mind," Eliza reflected more to herself than to the priest. "Hand me the child," Father O'Leary said. Eliza placed the girl in his arms and followed him down to the small chapel in the northern wing of the manor. He set the baby down on the alter and sprinkled holy water over her forehead. "What name will she be baptized with?" "Lizbeth," Eliza replied. "Is that Joseph's wish?" the priest replied. "Joseph is not here," Eliza said without preamble. Father O'Leary shrugged and said the necessary prayers. "I baptize thee Lizbeth Covenant in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," he intoned with the same voice he'd baptized all of the other children with, only both parents had stood before him and their siblings beside them. Father O'Leary had reason to frown upon this. What evil caused a baby to kill a mother who bore four children before her with little difficulty? He turned to Eliza. "People are going to talk," he said. "About what, Father?" Eliza asked. "People are superstitious, the town's people even more so. This tragedy could come back to haunt this child simply through rumor," the priest reasoned. Eliza pondered that, "There is really nothing we can do about that." "We could forbid anyone to speak of it," the priest suggested. "No good. Mary Margaret and the butler already know about it, and they have gone into town to fetch the coroner," the maid replied. Father O'Leary sighed, "Then you are right. She will live with this shame for the rest of her life." "Her mother's death is really no fault of hers," Eliza said. The priest looked at Eliza as if he didn't believe her, and Eliza thought tears would fill her eyes at the look in his. He flicked his eyes from Eliza to the baby. She was beautiful and she bore Evaline's eyes. He looked to him to be the root of all evil, and nothing Eliza could say would change the clergyman's point of view on the matter, nor would it change the alienation she would receive from the town, from school, and possibly from her own father and siblings. Eliza picked the baby up and carried her to the child's pram. It was to be in the playroom until she was old enough to sleep in a bed, and then she could have the living quarters in the west wing. She rocked the baby to sleep and placed her in the pram, and leaving the gas lamp on low, she went to the kitchen. The whispering had already started.  
  
Covenant Estate, 1917  
  
Her dreams always seemed to be haunted. Beasts of Hell always visited her. In dreams that started out pleasant-with her brothers and sisters playing in the garden, she with them, a child again, five years old and unaware of evil-the hounds and other pets of the family would suddenly begin to morph into strange creatures of the pit. They had hunched backs and made strange howling noises. Their skin was purple and seemed to ripple in the day light. They would run straight for her, and her siblings would stand by and do nothing, with expressionless faces. She always seemed to remember Aaron's face in the morning, his round eyes blue and clear, yet his pale face vacant, without feeling. Ambrose seemed to be grinning at her through strands of disheveled long brown hair. Jeremiah always had his back turned, as if he refused to look upon them. Bethany's face always mirrored her twin's in vacancy and blankness. That one frightened her the most. She usually awoke from those dreams with a start, sitting straight up in bed and screaming a little. But now, she was barley able to lift her head off the pillow. The disease had raped her body of even the last shred of strength, and even trying to scream seemed to take more exertion than it was worth. She could only open her eyes and listen to her heart beat so fast that she was afraid it would pound free of her chest and fall to the floor. Such thoughts did not lesson the terror of the nightmare. Lizbeth Covenant turned her head ever so slightly towards the window and glared at her frail, withered reflection. It seemed years ago that she had been in all the well known social circles of Ireland and London. It seemed so long ago that she could trek a thousand times to the mausoleum with several books in her hands and her provisions for the day, and towards night fall, carry them back again. It made her frustrated to think of the strength she had squandered sitting all day long, reading. She regretted not going for more rides with Ambrose when he'd asked her, regretted not following Aaron out to the bluffs to watch him paint on those lonely days when neither one of them had anything to do, and school was a sweet dream that had been crushed in a spray of blood. She regretted not going with Bethany out into the woods and exploring the different paths her sister had to show her. She regretted not finishing school. All of this she regretted, but there was much she didn't. She never regretted being vain. She could admit that now that there was nothing to be vain about. She never regretted anything she ever did to further her own agenda, to broaden her circle of friends or make her that much more popular. She never regretted all the days she spent with the dead, and she was certain that all of her sitting with those who rested in her family mausoleum would be expecting her again, only this time for eternity. As often as her dreams prompted, her mind wandered back to her childhood, and as often as her brother, Jeremiah, fell into deep reverie, she thought of the time spent at the Standing Stones. It was the one thing she regretted with all her soul. She should have listened to her little childish conscience when it told her there was certain doom at those stones. She could still see the boiling sea and feel the roaring wind when she crossed the threshold into her wildest nightmares. She turned away from the window and sighed. The bell on the table looked so far away and so heavy. Today she simply didn't have the strength to reach over, pick it up, and ring for Eliza. Eliza had been there for her when she was sick as a child and now she was caring for her in her ultimate illness. She never recalled Eliza caring for any of her other siblings. Jeremiah had been sick throughout his childhood, and was sick even now. She wondered if Eliza cared for him. As if the maid had read her thoughts, she opened the door and carried a tray into the room. She set it on the bedside table and picked up a pillow from the foot of the bed. "Up you go, Miss, time for breakfast," she said cheerily. Lizbeth didn't want to hear her cheer. She became limp as Eliza propped her up against the head board, her bright blond hair spilling over her shoulders. As Eliza prepared the meal, Lizbeth spoke in a dry voice. "Who takes care of Jeremiah?" she asked. Eliza seemed to look confused, but she gave the best answer she could. "His servants care for him, dear. Come now. Got some nice hot porridge for you." Lizbeth didn't want porridge. She turned her head away when Eliza brought the spoon to her lips. "Why don't you care for Jeremiah? He's a Covenant too," she whined. "Now Miss Lizbeth, you're my charge. I've cared for you when you were little, and I cared for Jeremiah too when you weren't in need of my attention. I don't love just one of you above the other," the maid explained. Lizbeth had basically lived her life around hypocrites, and she could spot it in an instant. "You lie, Eliza," there were tears in her voice. "My poor brother. I want to see him." Eliza looked appalled. Lizbeth barely had the strength to ring her summoning bell, how was she to walk across the house and visit her sick brother. Eliza shook her head. "I'm afraid not, darling," she said sympathetically. Lizbeth turned her head away from the spoon again and sobbed. "Come on, Lizbeth, you have to keep your strength up," Eliza whined. She dropped the spoon in the porridge and thrust it away from her as if she were the willful child. "I refuse to eat a single bite until I see my brother," Lizbeth said. Somehow she found the strength to summon up enough gall to fold her arms and pout. Eliza rang for the butler and told him to fetch Joseph Covenant. Lizbeth sighed. Now Father was going to try and persuade her to stay in bed and eat her breakfast like a good little girl. No, she would not listen, she refused. She would turn a deaf ear to him. He never really thought of her the same as the others anyway. He never treated her different, never treated any of them differently or favorably. It was something between them, a divider between father and daughter that spoke of death and blood. Every time Joseph looked at her in the eye, his own betrayed his subconscious thoughts. You took my wife. Of course, Evaline's death was no fault of Lizbeth's. The midwife's carelessness had been the fatal mistake that killed her mother. Everyone in the house said it was so, and Joseph too, but the people in the town and at school thought otherwise. Some of the children at school refused to be her friend because of what they thought she'd done as a baby slipping from her mother's womb, as if the baby had the knife in her mouth that slit the vein and drained her mother of her life's blood. Lizbeth turned her thoughts from the past and focused her eyes on Eliza. The maid stood there until Joseph stepped inside, then she retreated to a chair in the corner of the room and began fussing with something. Her father sat on the side of her bed and took one of her hands, "Lizbeth, darling, how are you this morning?" "Oh, Father, I'm fine. Really. Daddy, will you do me a favor?" "Anything, my girl," Joseph replied. He smoothed the blond hair out of her face and smiled. Lizbeth liked his smile. "I want to see Jeremiah," she said. "See Jeremiah? Of course you may see Jeremiah," Joseph said, as if the idea of asking him for such a simple thing were absurd. "Thank you, Daddy," Lizbeth said, reaching for her father to give him a hug. He embraced his youngest daughter, who seemed always so far away from him (they all seemed out of his reach). Eliza stood up immediately to protest. "Sir, I don't think it's a good idea," she said, almost shouting. Joseph looked at her, "Eliza, it is not an issue. We shall make a bed for my daughter and put it in her brother's room. Do you understand?" Eliza pouted, but she curtsied and walked out. She didn't know why this upset her so, for she didn't hate Jeremiah. She loved him, and she loved Aaron and Bethany-Ambrose was questionable-but Lizbeth was like her own child, and she didn't want Jeremiah to encroach upon her time with her. Lizbeth didn't have very long, and Jeremiah was a relatively healthy man.  
  
Jeremiah was sitting up in his bed reading when the servants carried a cot in and set it next to his bed. "What's all this?" he asked. "Your sister, Lizbeth wishes to spend time with you," the butler said. Jeremiah took his glasses of and looked at the butler with incredulous eyes, "You don't say." "Oh, indeed I do, sir. She's been worried about you." Jeremiah grunted and put his book on his bedside table. Joseph carried Lizbeth in himself and set her down on the cot. Eliza shooed him out of the way before he even had time to kiss his daughter's feverish head. Jeremiah caught the look of anguish on his father's face. As Lizbeth neared the inevitable reunion with all of her friends from the mausoleum, Joseph had become very close to her. In his secret heart, Jeremiah had the morbid fancy that Joseph thought that Lizbeth was finally correcting the mistake she'd made at her birth, but everyone in the house knew that Lizbeth was not the cause of their dear mother's death. Lizbeth kissed Eliza's cheek. "Thank you Eliza, thank you Daddy," she said, giving her father a little wave. It was as if it were her last wish to be in her brother's room. Eliza smoothed the hair out of her face and reached for the breakfast tray. "Now, out with you," Lizbeth commanded. Eliza looked like the young woman had slapped her in the face. "Excuse me," she said. "Go on, I want to speak to my brother, and possibly my other siblings, now go." Eliza turned to Joseph pleadingly. The man shook his head and nodded to the door. The maid had no choice. She stood up, took her breakfast tray, and with tear brimmed eyes and a defeated look on her face, she sulked from the room. Joseph patted his oldest son's shoulder and smiled at Lizbeth before he shut the door respectfully behind him. Lizbeth leaned back against her pillow as if she was exhausted and Jeremiah turned his head to look at her. He was leaning tiredly against his own headboard, smiling. "What prompts your visit?" he inquired. Lizbeth smiled at him, "Is it so wrong for one to see her brother on occasion. You haven't been to visit me this month on account of how sick you've been." Jeremiah smiled, "Sorry." "Its not your fault, brother. I don't like Eliza," she blurted. "I thought you loved Eliza!" Jeremiah exclaimed. "Well I do," Lizbeth backpedaled, "but she makes me so mad!" Her vehement declaration sounded like a mouse squeak compared to the anger that Lizbeth was once capable of. "What does she do?" Jeremiah asked. Lizbeth didn't know where to start, "She is always hovering around me. She's the first thing I see when I wake up, and she's the last thing I see when I go to bed. I want to be up and getting around again, she wants to make sure I never get out of bed because when I'm weak and sick, she thinks I need her. I have a squadron of maids, why does Eliza seem to think I need her so much?" Jeremiah gave his shoulders a slight shrug, "Eliza loves you. She practically raised you. She had you baptized on the day of your birth. She named you. She made sure you survived the first few difficult weeks of your life. If our own mother were alive she would be doing the same things." "But Eliza is not my own mother. I don't want her to be. Did you see the look she gave Father when he gave me permission to see you today? Of course you didn't, we were in my room." "No, I didn't see that look, but I did see the one she made when Father dismissed her from your side as you laid next to me. It was one of pure rejection. Is that anyway to treat the woman who held you and cared for you for the last eighteen years?" "Do you think I'm being ungrateful?" "Well-I." Jeremiah shook his head. "Oh, come now, Jeremiah, you can tell me," she said. "I am being ungrateful. I've never been one to be very grateful for anything. From now on, I'm going to try my best to appreciate everyone." Jeremiah didn't know if it was a true promise, or a promise made in the face of grim death. So many people made such declarations on their deathbeds, and Jeremiah thought-for all the love of his sister-that this was one of them. As if she knew she were the point of interest in a discussion, Eliza poked her head in the door. Lizbeth smiled and waved her in. The maid's face brightened and she stepped inside with a breakfast tray, loaded to the point of overflowing with a cold breakfast for the two of them. Lizbeth smiled and Eliza sat the tray down for them. While sitting with her brother, Lizbeth had felt a little stronger, a little more energetic, and when Eliza sat the tray down, she reached for the bread and cheese and fixed herself her own little snack. She hadn't been able to do that in weeks. Eliza was a little taken aback. Not that Lizbeth would have let Eliza feed her like a child. She had only tried to this morning because she was unable to feed herself. Now Eliza felt the fool for forgetting that Lizbeth was eighteen years old and quite capable of handling herself, even when she was sick. Lizbeth chewed slowly, trying to save a little strength, fearing that as soon as she embraced it, it would slip from her again. After more than a little of the tray had been consumed, brother and sister leaned contentedly back and sighed. Lizbeth felt so much better, having eaten so much. She only hoped that she didn't throw it back up later. Jeremiah had reason to hope that as well. As soon as he lay back, his stomach turned over. He thought about calling for a dose of magnesia, but after a few seconds it calmed back down. He glanced at his sister, who was battling some inner demons of her own, demons that fought for the destruction of her stomach. She laid with her eyes closed and a hand over her stomach. Her face was a pale shade of green. "Lizbeth?" She said nothing. Jeremiah reached for the basin next to his bed. He passed it over to her side of the bed and set it on the floor. When he'd sat back up again, Lizbeth doubled over and put a hand to her mouth. Undigested food spewed between her fingers and she rolled off the cot. In one of the greatest moments of humiliation she'd ever known, she got down on her hands and knees and vomited in a basin on the floor. Jeremiah clambered out of his own bed and held her hair back from her face. He held her while her body jerked as she wretched up everything she'd eaten. He felt so sorry for her. Nothing was more pitiful. There were traces of blood in her vomit. When she was done, he helped her climb back into her cot. He covered her up and went into his bathroom to fetch a cold cloth and a glass of water. He put the cloth on her forehead and put the glass to her lips, but she pushed it away, fearing that she would vomit again. She took only a little sip, rinsed her mouth, and spat it in the basin. Jeremiah took the basin in the bathroom and cleaned up his sister. When he could finally lie down again, he was exhausted. Cleaning her up had been no easy task for a man as weak as kitten. They slept for a few hours and when Eliza poked her head in to check on them, nothing seemed out of place or disturbed. She didn't enter, and didn't smell the vomit stinking up the bathroom.  
  
Jeremiah woke up two hours later and glanced to his right. The cot and Lizbeth were gone. He assumed that Eliza thought it was time for Lizbeth to go back to her room. He sighed and rolled back over. He wanted some wine, but he didn't know if he could handle it. The prospect of vomiting the way Lizbeth had only a few hours ago was unpleasant to think about. In her room, Lizbeth woke with a jolt and reached for her brother's hand. He was gone, and she was in her own room again, with the windows open and the sunlight streaming in. To think that just a few hours ago she had been happily lying next to her brother and having an intelligent conversation with him. She missed him and suddenly felt very alone. Her bedroom door was open so that Eliza could hear her if she rang her little bell that was on her bedside table. Lizbeth flopped back against her pillows in a state of helpless frustration and didn't notice her sister Bethany walk in. The older woman stood at the door for a moment, and seeing that her sister was in some sort of awkward battle with herself, knocked lightly. Lizbeth glanced up and smiled. Bethany-taking that as a sign that it was all right to enter-strode in and smiled brightly. "Good morning sister." "Is it still morning, Bethany?" Lizbeth asked. Her clock seemed a million miles away in her sitting room. "Yes, it's only eleven of the clock. I brought you something from Dublin." Bethany handed her a small package wrapped in green paper. "What's this?" the younger woman asked. "A going away present," her sister answered. Am I that close to death? Lizbeth thought. She smiled and untied the bow. "Where are you going?" Lizbeth asked, taking the paper off. "London." "Again, sister?" Lizbeth asked. "Yes, I'm going to meet an Otto Keisinger. He's coming back with me to help me study my craft, at least I hope he will," Bethany said. She folded her hands in front of her. Lizbeth put the paper on the floor and turned her present over in her hands. It was a blue bound book of poems by Dante, a book Lizbeth had never seen before, and she had thought she'd found all of them. "Oh, Bethany!" she exclaimed. She opened it and gasped meekly, a sob catching in her throat, "Its wonderful!" "I knew you'd like it, Lizbeth," Bethany said, sitting next to her sister and giving her a hug. Lizbeth returned her embrace, "I hope your friend comes back with you. I hope everything works out in London. How long before you come back?" Bethany tilted her head, "A month I think." "I promise I shall have this read by then," Lizbeth said, hugging the book to her breast. Bethany laughed, "Oh, I have no doubt. You consume books faster than Aaron consumes scenery." They shared a hearty laugh. Lizbeth had forgotten what that sounded like: true, heart filled laughter, not the fake noises she made when attending soirees with her friends. It was one of those laughs she'd shared with Bethany when they were young, children with no problems except the usual: no sweets before dinner, no hitting, no biting. Lizbeth hugged her sister again and Bethany left to finish her packing. As Bethany left, Ambrose walked by, a wrapped package in his hand. He noticed that Lizbeth's bedroom door was already open and strode proudly in. Lizbeth titled her head. Rare was the occasion that Ambrose paid a visit. Just think, my own brother, the one that protected me all those years doesn't even come to see me. It made her mad enough to spit, if getting that mad were at all possible for a woman in her condition. Ambrose-in a rare state of contentedness-hurtled himself over the footboard and sat cross legged at the foot of her bed. Lizbeth smiled at him and he returned it. He leaned forward a little, his package in front of him. He folded his hands. His hair fell over his shoulders in long brown strands. His muscles rippled under his black cotton shirt (Lizbeth didn't understand his outfit but was fairly certain it had something to do with pirates, and why her older brother would have any affiliation with pirates was something beyond her completely). "Good morning. Heard you went to talk to Jeremiah for a while," he said pleasantly. Lizbeth smiled and nodded. "After a fight with Eliza, yes, I did." Ambrose made a spitting noise, "I've never liked Eliza. She used to pull my hair for no reason." "Oh, Ambrose, she wouldn't do that," Lizbeth protested. "Oh, she would," the young man said. Lizbeth thought that he looked suddenly older than eighteen. "Is something the matter?" she asked. "What?" Ambrose glanced up quickly, for he had been staring at his hands with a foul look on his face. "Oh nothing." He thrust the package at her awkwardly. Lizbeth wondered if his adult like deliberation of his hands had been just an attempt to word the situation. "I brought something for you." Lizbeth took the proffered package and tears came to her eyes. Ambrose had never given her anything. He probably felt sorry for her to such a great extent that he'd opened his black heart up a little bit. She bit her lower lip, smiling. She tore the paper off the package. She held a cigar box in her hand and opened the lid. She gasped again. Inside the cigar box was a finely crafted dagger inlaid with ivory and silver. Ambrose must have spent a fortune on it. A silver chain was connected at both ends. It was meant for hanging on the wall. She held her arms out to her brother. He resisted for a moment, then hugged his little sister tightly. He couldn't help it. She had such a charm that no one could resist, not the maids, not their teachers in school, not Joseph, not even strong-willed Ambrose. "Thank you, brother," she said through her tears. "Your welcome, Lizbeth," he replied. When he finally pried himself away from his sister, he sat back at the foot of the bed and crossed his legs again. "What have you been doing with yourself, brother?" she asked. "Oh," Ambrose said, not wanting to bore her-or frighten her-with the details, "I've been around, doing things. Man things." Lizbeth nodded and winked, "I see. Do you have a lady friend yet?" His face turned redder than Aaron's hair. "A lady friend?" Lizbeth laughed and patted his hand, "So you do." "I-I never said that," he stammered. Lizbeth giggled quietly. Ambrose turned his face away, "Don't laugh." It only served to make her giggle more. She was laughing so hard that she was finding it difficult to breath. She flopped back against her pillows and sighed happily. Ambrose tilted his head and gave her a concerned look. "You shouldn't laugh like that, Lizbeth. You'll make yourself sick." Lizbeth found that funny too. Now Ambrose couldn't resist that. He started laughing as well. They were just happy then, and in the middle of their mirth, Eliza poked her head in the door. She saw Ambrose laughing with Lizbeth and her face turned red with anger. Why did that little hellion have to bother her Lizbeth? She came in quietly and smiled at Lizbeth. She ignored Ambrose, and the young man didn't glance up at her. He kept his eyes level with his sister's. Lizbeth eyed Eliza suspiciously. Why did she treat him like that? He was a Covenant just like her and Jeremiah. "Thank you for coming to see me Ambrose. I've been so lonely," Lizbeth said. Eliza had her back to them, but was listening intently to what she said to her brother. "Its not a problem. I have been meaning to stop by, but I've been busy down at the cove," Ambrose replied. "What do you do down there? I've heard the place is crawling with pirates," Lizbeth said. Ambrose smiled. Pirates were one of his favorite subjects, "It is. Its defiantly not a place for young ladies, but I get by down there." "Do you talk like a pirate down there?" she asked, "With the ferradin accent and the ugly slang?" His sister was smiling at him as if she were interested. Ambrose shrugged, "A little." "Could you show me some?" she asked. Eliza dropped something. Ambrose flicked his eyes over to the maid and then back to his sister's eyes. There was a mischievous glint to them. It was as if she were trying to make the maid sweat. Ambrose smirked and shrugged again. "Sure, I could show you some, I suppose," he smiled a little. He jumped up on the bed, boots and all, and avoiding her feet, did a merry jig. "Ahoy, I'm supposed t' talk like a pirate t' my sister Lizbeth. Aye, me parrot concurs." Lizbeth doubled over laughing, a hand over her stomach and one over her mouth. Her heart was beating wildly and she loved it. "I had no idea you had a parrot." Ambrose jumped once again, "Arrr, yes, he sleeps in my cabin. A pence for an old man o'de sea?" Lizbeth giggled again. Eliza had whirled around by now and was staring at this spectacle with wide eyes. Her mouth was agape. Ambrose glanced at her. "Arrr, stop it Lizbeth. You're scarin' Eliza Gar," he barked. The girl laughed harder and was scarcely breathing. Ambrose hopped off the bed and bent over her. Her face was red and he felt a fluttering of fear in his cold heart. "Lizbeth?" "I'm fine, I'm fine," she gasped. She breathed deeply laid back against her pillows. "That's the most fun I've had in months, Ambrose. Thank you." "You're welcome, sister." He hugged her again, and leaning very close to her ear, whispered: "Where can I find a bottle o'rum?" Lizbeth screamed and giggled again. Eliza grabbed hold of her chest as if it were her own heart that threatened to stop beating. Ambrose jumped back from Lizbeth and tap danced again, triumphing in the fact that he had made her laugh. Simple pleasures were hard to come by these days, and he was willing to take any one he could get. By now Eliza had had enough of his capering about, acting like a pirate and exhausting her poor Lizbeth. "That's enough, Ambrose. Miss Lizbeth is tired." "Oh, no I'm not," Lizbeth protested. "I can see it in your eyes, child," Eliza reasoned. Ambrose folded his arms, his muscles rippling again. Eliza caught that and was afraid for a moment. But only a moment. "Shoo, you little hellion. Give your sister some peace, will you?" Eliza said, making shooing motions with her hands. Ambrose smiled at Lizbeth again, knowing that Eliza was in for the tongue lashing of her life. "Good bye for now, Lizbeth," he said, waving. Lizbeth was close to tears, "Oh, good bye, Ambrose." Eliza put her hands on her hips and smiled. "Now that he's gone." she said, returning to her work at the side table. Lizbeth rubbed her teary eye with a clenched fist. "Why did you do that?" "Do what, darling?" Eliza asked. "Oh, don't act innocent. You made my brother leave. He wasn't doing anything." "He has no business coming in here and exhausting you like that. He does it on purpose," Eliza said, walking over to the foot of the bed where he had been jumping. "Look at what he's done to your bed. Dirty boot marks and wrinkles. I'll have to fetch you a new quilt." Lizbeth relaxed. She was tired, but it was only from laughing, perfectly natural. She wanted to sleep again. She curled up under the covers and took a nap while Eliza changed the quilt.  
  
There it is, this nightmare again. Would it ever stop? What are those beasts? Those things with the dog ears and purple translucent skin. They are chasing me, running after me, and they're so fast. Why can't I run faster? I'm sixteen aren't I? She looked down at her legs. They were short, and she was no taller than the weeds that grew on the bluffs. She was a child again, and she was running back to the house, those howling things right on her heels. She passed by Aaron and Jeremiah on the bluffs. Her oldest brother had his back to her again, and Aaron just looked blank, his eyes were red like his hair and his face was gaunt. The skin began to sink and his eyes receded farther into his head. He clothes dropped from his body, taking the skin with them, rats appeared from beneath the piles of clothes on the ground. Lizbeth turned away her eyes and saw Jeremiah. His head was gone. She looked at Bethany, but Bethany didn't see her. Her face was as round as a china plate and as blank as Aaron's. Suddenly, she began to grow very tall, taller than the trees. They were only children. There was blood coming from Ambrose's eyes, and Lizbeth was afraid of him. The howling thing was chasing her straight towards her siblings. How frightening they were! She loved them, and they loved her, but why was she going to them. They could do nothing. They would do nothing. She hardly stopped, though it felt like her lungs were going to burst. Her six year old legs could only pump so fast. She passed by them with only a second glance at them and one behind her. The beast was toying with her, but she was sure that if she had looked like such good fun it would have over powered her by now and unzipped her guts. She made straight for the manor. Eliza would protect her, and Father too. She went through the garden entrance, but regretted it, for the double doors on the front of the house were heavier. She slammed and locked the door behind her and rushed into the servant's living quarters, looking for Eliza. She stepped carefully, quietly. She could hear the Howler scratching at the door in the kitchen. She hoped it was just fast, not strong. A rumbling noise came from the bathroom, and Lizbeth opened the door. Lying face down in the tub with her head at her feet and limbs askew, most of the flesh on her back gone, was Eliza, and squatting on the basin was another Howler. It had been pointless to run to the house, for they were already there. Blood dripped from the ceiling and Lizbeth only had time to scream before the Howler pounced.  
  
Covenant Family Estate, 1920  
  
She sat straight up. Despite her ailing body and withered limbs, she shot straight up as if drawn on a hook and hauled to a sitting position. Her scream was little more than a wavering little squeal. Eliza, sitting in a chair at her side, opened her eyes and started forward. "Lizbeth, are you alright?" she asked. Lizbeth flopped back against her pillows and sighed. "I had that dream again," she said. "You've been having that dreams since you were young. It's those damn monks across the water. Their chanting at night must frighten you," Eliza said pointedly. She yawned and stretched. "Eliza, I don't hate the monks. Don't talk about them like that," Lizbeth said. Her eyes began to close again and her heart beat slowed down. Eliza covered her back up, pulling the covers up to her chin. Lizbeth's cheeks looked hollow in the lamp light. Her eyes were sunken and the profound bones of her face cast horrible shadows over her eyes. It made them look like there were none at all, and that a skull was staring back at her. Eliza shook her head and fluffed Lizbeth's pillows. Lizbeth was near death. The doctors said she only had a few months left, but Eliza was concerned about her making it through another night of torment and internal bleeding. Lizbeth had woken up the previous night, choking on her own blood. The doctor had been summoned as quickly as possible. His diagnosis: minor brain aneurism. It had come close to killing her, and Joseph sat by her side the whole night. He stationed Eliza in the chair and there she was to remain until Lizbeth died or a miracle occurred. The latter didn't seem forthcoming. Eliza had been watching her wither away to nothing for the last three years. She was used to the fact that Lizbeth was not going to live. She had accepted it, but she was going to fight for every single moment she could for the girl.  
  
The next morning, Aaron, in a strange burst of friendliness, waltzed in and sat down next to his sister. She reached out a hand to him and they spent a few moments in quiet conversation before Eliza sent him away. Lizbeth cried, but made barely a sound. As soon as Aaron walked out the door, Lizbeth turned to Eliza and said, "Will you fetch me a basin of warm water? I think I will clean up a little." "Of course darling," Eliza said. Lizbeth knew her time was coming. She felt it in her chest, and tried not to let it show as Eliza went into the bathroom to fill her basin with hot water. The convulsions started. Her chest began to pound, and she thought her heart would burst through her chest cavity and flop to the floor. Her body jerked to a sitting position. Her limbs shook and her head jerked. Saliva began to appear at the corners of her mouth and dribble down her chin. Her eyes clouded over. Breath would no longer come to her lungs. She saw grey, then red, then black. Her body flopped back onto the bed and her head twitched once before her eyes rolled up into her head and the last vestige of life seeped from her organs. A silence filled the room. Not even a bird outside the open window made a noise to fill the void. Even the water in the bathroom as it poured into the basin sounded hollow and distant. It didn't seem to reach farther than the bathroom door. Eliza came into the room and beheld the sight of the dead girl in the bed. The basin slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. It shattered into a thousand porcelain pieces and with it the silence of death. Eliza's screams were not far behind it. It brought servants from rooms far down the hallway, and Aaron from his studio. As the people crowded around the room and the crying subsided, as the priest bent over Lizbeth to say the prayers, Lizbeth was changing.  
  
Behind her blindly staring eyes, a red flame was growing in her brain. Inside deaf ears, a voice was howling. Inside her mouth, the taste of blood was rising: blood and flesh. Her soul was active, her limbs cried for new life, but there was still work to be done, before she could reemerge. A calm voice, beneath the howling, explained it all. She must first be put to rest. Lizbeth had a faint idea about where that would be. As a child, Lizbeth had loved the family mausoleum. She spent many days there, reading. When she'd come home from London, she would take her new books with her to the mausoleum and sit there and finish them in one sitting. As the crowds of people came and went in her bedroom, paying their respects, the servants kneeling by her body, which was now clothed in a white dress and veil. She looked like a little angel, and she loathed it. She had always loved to be the center of attention, to be inside the circle, but now Lizbeth loathed this respectful ritual. She loathed the thought of a funeral. As the crowds of people came and went, she remembered, for what else was there for the dead.  
  
Covenant Family Estate 1902  
  
She sat by herself in the playroom. Her brothers and sisters were gone. She, only three years old, had lost her last playmate this year when he went away to school. Ambrose had never been the type to play with her, but he had been her only company. Now he was away at school, bothering the teachers and students instead of Eliza and Father. She was sitting alone, in the middle of her bed when Eliza came in. "Why darling, you look so lost!" the maid exclaimed. Lizbeth only glanced up. Eliza put her hands on her hips and looked around. She couldn't stay and entertain the girl all day, but she knew of something that could. Eliza had been teaching Lizbeth to read for the last few months and she was a very good pupil. Eliza strode over to the bookshelf on the left wall and took a rather large book from the stacks that Jeremiah had carelessly built. "Try this, darling. Its one of Jeremiah's favorites," Eliza said. "Its big," Lizbeth said. It was over two hundred pages. "Yes, but it will keep you occupied," the maid said, "It has pictures as well." Lizbeth flipped through the book and smiled. She found a story that was worth her time and immediately fell to. She didn't notice Eliza walk out and quietly close the door. The maid had started the child on a hobby that would consume most of the girl's time.  
  
After the events at the Standing Stones, Lizbeth had started reading in earnest, and in odd places. She had taken up a stronghold in the playroom, and by day was never seen walking about. She had her meals served to her on her silver tray and never came out to play when she had a favorite book. Joseph began giving her some old books he had read when he was a child. He ordered new ones for her, sending away to London for them. Family members gave them to her for Christmas. When she was old enough, she began to read other books. She traveled to London for them, and Dublin, and Paris. In her London years, she became a sort of social elitist, an expert on rare books. She would come home with new ones, entire series by one author. One afternoon she was wandered in through the garden, a work of Dante in her hand. She meandered by the gate that led to the Covenant Mausoleum. It swung wide for her. She glanced over her shoulder at it warily. Something called to her, and something within her answered. She strode purposefully towards the very North wing of the house. She followed the beaten path for a quarter of a mile until she came upon the Mausoleum. The last person to be laid there had been her mother on the day of her birth. She looked out over the bluffs at the island beyond, at the monastery, and at the waves, but always, the voice in her head pulled her back to the mausoleum. It was unlocked. She pushed the gates open and stepped inside. Curtains fluttered to her left and right. Little cells beckoned to her. Inside were places to sit and pay respects to the dead. She sat on one of the benches, reclined against the wall and began to read. She didn't come out until sunset. She wondered, halfway through her book, that if she tried to leave, would she be allowed to.  
  
She returned almost every week to the mausoleum to read. When Aaron trekked out to the bluffs to paint his pictures that looked nothing like the still life he was going for, she would trek in the opposite direction to the mausoleum. It wasn't long after she had been reading in the mausoleum that the wasting sickness began to take over. She had been bed ridden a year later, and unable to return to her mausoleum sanctum, she had withered down to nothing. She felt the life seeping out of her, every day until her death. Every day she was away from the mausoleum, the sickness worsened. If she had rested in there, had spent the night in her sanctum, she would have survived.  
  
Now she was coming back. In a procession of bodies dressed in black, she was coming into her sanctum.  
  
Bethany met Jeremiah, Aaron, Ambrose, and Joseph by the mausoleum door. She had a blue bound book in her hand. "What is that, sister?" Jeremiah asked. "One of Lizbeth's books," the younger woman replied. "I was going to put it with her to sleep with. She loved it so." Joseph turned away and sobbed again. Bethany wrapped her arms around him and he buried his face in his daughter's shoulder.  
  
She could sense them, feel them congregating outside, but most of all she could feel her family members. Only, they were no longer her brothers and sister. They were different, they were a threat. She could smell it, even though no breath moved in her body. She could sense the change in her coagulating blood. They were changed, and they were horrid looking. Bethany-was that tall reeking being truly her sister? Was that headless corpse on the ground Jeremiah? It had to be, for his glasses were lying next to his torso. Aaron-if that fleshless thing had a name- was standing next to Bethany, and her poor father was bleeding from his head. She could smell them, smell their corruption, and for a moment she was afraid. She could feel her body changing. Her hands and fingers felt changed and her muscles felt taut like a bow string. She felt peaceful and hungry.  
  
The family followed the procession into the mausoleum and placed the coffin in its rightful place next to Evaline's on the shelf two up from the floor. Ambrose was one of the pallbearers. He wiped his face with an elegant hand that had already dealt death. He swung the crypt door shut and locked it with the iron bar that slid into place with not even a squeak. An eerie shudder passed through the procession and it turned on its heel to file out. Jeremiah stood still a moment after the rest of the procession was gone. He stared at Lizbeth's crypt and his hands turned cold. He could hear, faintly as if on a wind, a noise coming from within. Only there was no wind, no breeze, no draft. The noise-if noise is not too strong a description for something so faint-sounded like a sort of chanting, whispering. It was not natural. He felt as if he could reach out his hand, open the crypt and let the whispering out, but he stood still, cold and numb. The chanting stopped after a few seconds and he could move again. He walked out of the crypt and a servant dressed in black shut the gate behind him.  
  
Her eyes snapped open and met only darkness. Her muscles were tight and she felt like she was sleeping on a bed, a bed of stone cushioned by the soft silk lining of her coffin. She panicked for a moment, but only a moment. Her body did not scream for breath and she was not breathing at all. She held her hands up before her face in the darkness and felt her flesh. Her fingers were not normal appendages. They were pointed and jagged like claws. They were longer. She pushed the lid of her coffin but it would not give. Layers of stone pushed back. She put them above her head and pushed the back of her coffin. It gave rather quickly, and she was surprised by her own strength and the instincts to use it. She put her hands farther out and touched smooth iron. It felt thin, and she put her fist through it, then again. She pulled herself out of the cavity and stood on the cold floor of her sanctum. The gates were locked, but she broke them. The air did not move, even though it used to move through like a ghost. It used to flutter the draperies and chill her to the bone, but now it was not chilly or haunting. It was as if she had never known what it was to live in a house. The mausoleum was her home now, and this change did not come with the slightest regret. She looked down at her body. She was pale, gowned in white. Her hands and feet were like an animal's and her muscles were huge. She was still very thin and she had no doubts about the speeds she could run at. At her back was a scratching noise. She turned and from a hollow place in the wall sat a little dog looking animal. She gasped, for she had seen them every night of her life. A Howler crouched in the hollow place and looked up at her, its head tilted a little, listening and waiting. It did not pose any threat and Lizbeth approached it. It stood up a little. It was as tall as a man, but with its crouching nature, it seemed like a little dog. She touched its head. It was scaly and purple and cold, but it didn't frighten her. It seemed to be waiting for her to tell it to do something. She beckoned it forward and it crawled forward. It was followed by a second Howler and a third and a fourth. Six howlers in all crawled from the hollow spot in the wall. She smiled and they waited for her. They were at her command completely and she had the perfect job for them. Hunger pulled at her stomach, a hunger for something she'd always liked to do. When she was six she developed a habit of biting. She had enjoyed it, but had grown out of it when she started staying at the mausoleum. Now she wanted to again, she wanted to bite and rip and rend and spew red blood. She imagined one hopeless peasant or servant after another that would grace her palate and nestle in her stomach. She growled quietly and the monsters growled with her. She stepped outside the gate of her mausoleum. The sun had set, the moon was out. The Howlers followed her. She could sense small animals in the night. Ground hogs and field mice buried themselves in the ground. But she wasn't after small prey. She could smell the scent of man flesh on the night air. She mentally called for two Howlers to come with her and she approached the garden at a fast pace. The Howlers kept up perfectly and she knew that if the notion took her, she could out distance them. The gardener was putting some tools away in the shed for the evening when Lizbeth leapt upon him. He had no chance to scream. She howled like a banshee and the Howlers answered. She bit into the gardeners neck and listened to him strangle on his own blood. As she and monsters finished their meal, the moon rose ever higher over their backs, bathing them as the blood bathed their limbs, a pale pool of purple in the starless night.  
  
Jeremiah sat smoking a pipe in his room, now fully recovered from his illness. He stood and went to the window that over looked the bluffs. He glanced up at the full moon and thought of Lizbeth. She had been such a beautiful creature. As he pondered her death and illness and his own frequent sicknesses, a noise erupted from the opposite side of the yard. He couldn't see around the house, but he could have sworn it was a howling wolf or banshee. An image of Lizbeth popped into his head and he hung it sullenly. He couldn't help feeling that something was happening, something that could not be stopped. He thought of the ritual at the Standing Stones and of the odd occurrences in the years after. They were connected he was sure, and he was also sure that wherever Lizbeth was, she was not far. And she was not dead. 


End file.
